He looked at the fence twice on Thursday and once on Friday and both times the light was on and the porch was empty and he told himself that was fine, that was normal. That meant nothing. On Saturday morning, Darius came downstairs at 7:30, which was unusual for a kid who treated weekend mornings like a constitutional right to sleep until 10:00. And he stood in the kitchen doorway watching Marcus make eggs with the expression of someone who had been thinking about something some for a while. "You seem different," Darius said.
Marcus didn't look up from the pan. "How so? Like you're waiting for something?" Marcus turned the eggs. I'm waiting for these eggs, Dad.
Darius a pause. Then his son walked to the table and sat down. And Marcus could feel the weight of the conversations settling over the kitchen. The way weather settles gradual. Inevitable already here before you name it.
Is it Clare? Darius asked. Marcus set the spatula down, turned off the burner, turned around, and looked at his son across the kitchen. This 12-year-old boy with his mother's eyes and his father's stubbornness and a perceptiveness that sometimes felt less like a child's trait and more like a gift the universe had specifically calibrated to make Marcus Reed uncomfortable. "We're neighbors," Marcus said.
"That's all." Darius looked at him steadily. "Okay," he said in the tone of voice. That meant he believed approximately none of that. Marcus put the eggs on two plates and brought them to the table.
They ate in silence for a minute. Then Darius said, "She seems lonely." Marcus looked up. "I see her sometimes," Darius said. "When I'm up early, she sits on the porch before it's even light out.
Just sits there with that lamp on." He poked at his eggs. "Reminds me of how you used to sit in the living room at night." "After mom," Marcus was quiet. "I used to come to the top of the stairs," Darius said, not looking up.
You didn't know, but I'd sit there and watch you and I didn't say anything because I didn't know what to say. I just didn't want you to be by yourself. Marcus felt something move through him that he had no name for. You never told me that, he said. You never asked, Darius said simply.
Marcus looked at his son for a long moment. Then he reached across the table and put his hand briefly on top of Darius's and squeezed once. Darius didn't pull away. They finished the eggs, and Marcus spent the rest of that morning understanding that his 12-year-old had just given him more insight into loneliness and into what to do about it than four years of managing his own grief had managed to produce. The next evening, he went to Clare's front door and knocked.
She opened it after a moment and she looked at him with that level. Careful expression of hers and he said, "I thought maybe we could take a walk." "If you want, Darius is at a friend's house. I've got a couple hours." She looked at him for a second.
"Let me get my jacket," she said. That was all. No negotiation, no hedging, just yes. Marcus stood on her porch and waited. And he realized his heart was beating faster than it had any practical reason to be.